The Guernseyman Read online

  “Could two or three deserters be as important as that, sir?”

  “Not in themselves but any deserter could bring us vital information and his example would not be lost on his friends. You look doubtful?”

  “Well, sir, I can see that this is a war of confused loyalties, but a man who changes sides after the war has begun has little, surely, to hope for. He will be distrusted in the army he has joined and will be hanged if captured by the army he has left.”

  “Such men may exist for all that. As an American I was asked if I knew of any officer who might come over to us. There was none I could name but I have talked to prisoners who were ashamed of the part they had played and who might have joined us had they not been captured first. Well now, we have finished the port and had best say goodbye. I hope we shall meet again, perhaps in London, and I shall expect to see you as a lieutenant.”

  On this note the conversation ended and Richard walked back to his quarters, where he had to pack his sea-chest and jettison all that he could not expect to take with him to his new ship. Among a litter of invitation cards and theatre programmes, he came across a poem he had begun to write and a watercolour he had attempted, Charlotte being the subject of each. Was he really broken-hearted? Well, nothing had affected his appetite or sleep. The truth was, he told himself, that she was much like any other girl of her class, pretty, stupid and spoilt. In a few days, in a few weeks at most, he would forget that she ever existed. In this belief, however, he was wrong. He was to remember her, in fact, until the day he died. There would be prettier girls and there would be more lingering kisses but it could be said of empty-headed Charlotte that she had been the first.

  Chapter 6

  CHARLESTON BESIEGED

  THE Falcon (18) lay out in the East River and Richard, coming off from the shore, presented himself to Mr Bancroft, the first lieutenant, whose manner was far from encouraging.

  “Well, youngster, I’ve heard something about you. On the commodore’s staff they tell me. It seems to me that you’ve been too long ashore, too much of an idler, too seldom on deck and very rarely aloft. We shall have to change all that and see whether we can’t make a seaman of you after all.”

  This marked the beginning of what was to be a difficult period in Richard’s life. What the lieutenant said was all too true. He was fairly senior in years of service but knew too little of practical seamanship. The word had been passed that he was a mere quill-driver and that he was to be treated accordingly. Up to a point he was equal to the work that came his way, being good at boat-handling, average in navigation and fairly active aloft. He could never at this stage, however, have passed his lieutenant’s examination in ship-handling. He had some rough treatment at Mr Bancroft’s hands, being mast-headed for his worst mistakes and loudly cursed for minor instances of apparent neglect. He never, however, made the mistake of referring to his recent work ashore. He offered to fight any other youngster who sneered at him and was soon accepted as a member of the gunroom mess. There was a master’s mate called Branning, two midshipmen called Hyatt and Tenison, the captain’s clerk called Priestman and a young volunteer (first class) called Mattingley. All were on good terms and Richard found a special friend in Mike Tenison, an Irish youngster from Roscommon, whose eye he blacked on their first meeting. In the end, Richard learnt more from his messmates than he did from Mr Bancroft.

  Soon after the Falcon sailed on 14 October 1779, Richard was bidden to dine at the captain’s table where he also became acquainted with the other lieutenant, Mr Maxwell. His first meeting with Captain Mottram had been brief and formal and this was Richard’s chance to make a good impression. He had little help in this from Mr Bancroft, who was also present and who referred, indirectly, to his lack of recent experience at sea. There could be no defence against this sort of accusation but Richard was rescued by Mr Maxwell, who asked him about the quality of the work done in the New York shipyards. To this sort of question he could give an intelligent answer, praising the work done but casting a little doubt on the shipwrights’ honesty.

  “Our own are no better,” said Maxwell sadly, “in fact they are probably worse.” A more general conversation followed and Captain Mottram questioned Richard about his fluency in French.

  “I am fluent, sir,” replied Richard, “but with a Guernsey accent. I avoid using words which are peculiar to Guernsey but I would never pass as a Parisian. I suspect that Guernsey French is old-fashioned and that it may resemble, in that respect, the French that is spoken in Quebec.”

  “You are probably right there,” said the captain. “French Canadians speak a sort of French heard in the last century, I have been told.”

  “You might agree, sir,” said Maxwell, “that Americans do much the same. They use expressions like “gotten” which would have been good English in 1600.”

  “It would not be wrong now,” objected Mr Bancroft.

  “It could be impolite, however,” rejoined the captain amidst laughter. “But what about the American accent? You are partly an American, Delancey, but I should not guess it from your speech.”

  “I am a Guernseyman, sir, by birth and American only in having relatives in New York, people of my own name. But there are Americans in our forces, I have been told, whose accent suggests their origin. I have heard that said of General Clinton.”

  “I have met the general,” said the captain, “and it is true. But the more manifest American accent comes from New England, from Boston. People in the southern colonies, where we are going, speak differently again and perhaps more pleasantly.”

  The dinner party did not end before Richard had managed to reveal, to Mr Maxwell, his own interest in gunnery. The response was immediate and he was offered the loan of a recent book on the subject, published in France. “I fear,” said Mr Maxwell, “that the French have paid more attention to the subject than we have.”

  “They are well versed in the theory,” admitted Mr Bancroft, “but it is another thing to handle the guns in half a gale with decks awash and big seas breaking over the forecastle. Seaman-ship matters more than the neat engravings made to illustrate a work on ballistics.”

  Captain Mottram intervened firmly at this point to say that theory and practice must go together. From his tone Richard concluded that disagreements on this subject had been frequent between the two lieutenants. He himself had much to learn from both of them and as much again from the captain. This voyage was his chance to learn and he realised that his teachers were among the best. And while all his sympathies were with the more civilised Mr Maxwell, his future depended, he knew, on gaining the good opinion of the more caustic Mr Bancroft. He would do this, he resolved, or die in the attempt.

  There were moments during the voyage when death did not seem unlikely. He all but fell from the fore-topmast yard on one occasion, being saved only by the seaman nearest him. He came near to serious accident when reefing the fore-topsail in pitch darkness. His perseverance was rewarded in the end, however, when Mr Bancroft admitted rather grudgingly that his time in making sail had been fairly good; or better, anyway, than the time achieved by the other watch. Any trace of self-satisfaction was wiped out immediately and he was in disgrace again before the watch ended, but he had at least glimpsed the promised land (or sea) of his superior officer’s approval. Harsh comments on his work had one useful result in making the seamen take his side. He was to learn much from the petty officers and was given many a useful hint by the captain of the foretop. He would never be as quick as the tongue-tied Branning but he was quicker than Hyatt and more thorough, at times, than Tenison. On the day when a seaman fell overboard and was rescued by a very creditable piece of boat-work, Richard received a brief compliment from the captain himself. He had become, he felt, a useful member of a very effective team.

  By the accepted discipline of the period Captain Mottram was under no compulsion to reveal the object of the voyage to his officers, still less to his midshipmen. He did so, however, after the sloop had been at sea for tw
o weeks, calling them together in the wardroom.

  “Before we sailed, gentlemen, you must have been aware that a conjunct expedition was to take place. Merchant ships had already been chartered and some were being fitted for the transport of horses. It may be doubted, however, whether all the necessary tonnage will be ready before December. The destination of the expedition has been a secret but one I can now reveal to those who are to take part in the campaign. You must know, gentlemen, that Vice-Admiral Arbuthnot and General Sir Henry Clinton have agreed on a bold stroke: the capture of Charleston, the chief port of South Carolina, held at present by a rebel garrison. A strong force has been assembled with artillery sufficient to breach the defences. We already hold another port further south, Savannah in Georgia, where we have a more than sufficient garrison. In order to field the largest possible force against Charleston, Sir Henry plans to withdraw troops from Savannah for that service. I have been entrusted with his orders to the Savannah garrison commander. Having delivered them, I am to sail for Charleston where I am to join the vice-admiral’s flag. We may have an active part to play in the siege and the more so in that the harbour at Charleston is too shallow for ships of any great tonnage. However, our immediate duty takes us to Savannah where we should drop anchor in three days, and where much will depend upon our discipline and good behaviour. This is not a war against an enemy country, against foreigners like the French or Spanish. These colonies are British and those to the south are thought to be very much on our side. At Savannah we are to consider ourselves among friends and must behave accordingly. On the other hand, we must not be more than friendly where the ladies of Georgia are concerned; nor, when Charleston falls, must we be other than civil towards the ladies of South Carolina. We need the good opinion of these people and we shall have to earn it. Please make this clear to seamen and marines alike. I say nothing at this stage about the dire consequences of misconduct in this respect. I would rather leave it to the good sense of the men themselves. Any questions?”

  “Might I ask, sir,” inquired Mr Bancroft, “whether the southern soldiers may not be lukewarm in the rebel cause?”

  “Perhaps they are,” replied the captain, “but don’t count on it. I understand that the garrison of Charleston has been stiffened by men detached from New England, gunners and engineer officers especially and perhaps some Frenchmen as well. I should guess that the place will have to be bombarded and stormed.”

  “Should I be right, sir, in supposing that these southern colonies become impossibly hot in summer?”

  “That is so, Mr Maxwell. We need to do our business before June, after which the fighting will cease by what amounts to mutual agreement.”

  There were no other questions but there was much discussion afterwards about how Charleston was to be captured. Mr Maxwell took the three midshipmen to his cabin and showed them the chart.

  “The key to the position,” he explained, “is this fort here on Sullivan’s Island. Charleston has been attacked before, you see, in 1776 and Sir Henry was beaten off by the guns of what has since been named Fort Moultrie after the colonel who then commanded the South Carolina Militia. Now Clinton is to try again and I’ll wager he won’t make the same mistake again. He’ll assault from the other side, you can be sure, but that fort will hold out against him. With the bar at the harbour mouth, the squadron cannot easily close the range. Frigates could enter, maybe, but their guns are not heavy enough to silence that fort. A sloop like this might pass the bar without much difficulty but would be blown out of the water. With Fort Moultrie fallen today, Charleston itself would fall tomorrow.”

  Falcon reached Savannah on 29 November 1779 to find the place partly in ruins. It had been attacked in October by the French Admiral D’Estaing and rebel troops commanded by General Lincoln. D’Estaing had been anxious to sail again and persuaded Lincoln to make a premature assault. This had been beaten off by Major-General Augustus Prevost whose men had some reason to be proud of themselves. They were not, however, ready to embark nor was Mottram in any hurry to leave while a French squadron remained (for all he knew) in the vicinity. He was still at Savannah for Christmas, sailing finally with a convoy of transports laden with troops, artillery and horses. Charleston was reached on 11 February and it soon appeared that Sir Henry Clinton’s army was already ashore and had captured James’s Island. Frigates had crossed the bar in March but the squadron was still faced by the guns of Fort Moultrie. A long siege was in prospect and with no certainty of final victory. At anchor in Five Fathom Hole, the Falcon did little more than provide occasional working parties for service ashore. It was while commanding such a party that Delancey met some troopers of the 17th Light Dragoons on James’s Island. They belonged to a single troop sent to stiffen the locally raised horse units, the regiment as a whole being elsewhere but he had news, at least, of Oliver de Lancey. His more regular task was to visit the lighthouse, making sure that the rebels were not using it as an observation post. It could as easily have been occupied but the decision had been taken to patrol it daily at different hours and also occasionally at night. On this errand, after dark, Delancey became aware of another boat approaching the island. The sounds came from the creek on the landward side and Delancey quietly ordered his five men to cock their muskets and spread out to face the intruders. Drawing and cocking his own pistol, he realised that this might be his baptism of fire. He had seen a riot in Liverpool but he had not so far faced the enemy, least of all at the head of his own detachment. Was he destined to perish before his career had fairly begun? He became aware of his heart beating and realised that there was sweat on his brow. Men had landed from the boat and were moving quietly towards him. He waited until he could glimpse the leader’s head against the sky, and then called out:

  “Halt! Who’s there?”

  The man stood still and replied:

  “I’ve a message for General Clinton.”

  “Are you armed?” asked Delancey.

  “Yessir, I’ll say.”

  “Drop your arms on the ground.”

  “Sure.” There was the sound of a musket falling on the path.

  “Step forward slowly but tell the others to stay where they are.”

  The man advanced with his hands above his head and Delancey told a seaman to search him while he himself kept the stranger covered.

  “He is unarmed, sir,” reported the sailor.

  “Very well, then. Two paces forward and tell me who you are.”

  “I’m Philip Dobbs of Wapoo Creek.”

  “How many are there in your party?”

  “One other man and a boy; Saul, my nephew.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Like I said, I’ve a message for the general.”

  “From whom?”

  “That I’m not saying.”

  “Are your men armed?”

  “Isaac is. Saul ain’t.”

  “Tell Isaac to ground his arms and come forward.”

  Philip was a middle-aged man with a straggling beard but the white-haired Isaac seemed to be about eighty and Saul, when told to come forward, appeared to be about fifteen.

  Making a swift decision, Delancey sent a seaman to collect the two fowling pieces and then marched the three colonists back to his own boat. On board the sloop again, he reported to Mr Maxwell, who reported in turn to Captain Mottram. Delancey was not a witness to the discussion which followed but he presently saw the three civilians being ushered into the launch, which moved off, under Mr Bancroft’s command, in the direction of Stour Ferry. Mr Maxwell commended Delancey for his part in the affair, adding that the Americans were being taken under escort to Sir Henry Clinton’s headquarters.

  “This could be a good night’s work, Delancey. Someone on the rebel side is trying to get in touch with us. Let’s hope that the eleventh-hour loyalist is sufficiently high in rank.”

  Delancey was no party to the negotiations which followed. All he did, finally, was to take Philip Dobbs back to his boat and this after dark o
n the following night.

  The siege of Charleston began on 1 April 1780, the first parallel being completed in two days and the siege works progressed inexorably according to the accepted rules of warfare. To ensure the success of the final bombardment and assault it was essential to move the ships of the line into position opposite the town. They were lightened sufficiently to cross the bar but Fort Moultrie still flanked the channel through which the ships would have to pass. When the orders came to sail in on 8 April the risk was all too obvious. Vice-Admiral Arbuthnot took the precaution, however, of sending in the Falcon ahead of the squadron and Delancey was detailed, on this occasion, to act as aide to Captain Mottram. So this, he thought, is to be my real baptism of fire. Against the stone-faced bastions of the fort the sloop’s cannon could achieve nothing, while she would herself be a perfect target for the far heavier guns which the fort would mount. The Falcon was a mere pawn, used to draw the enemy’s fire and establish whether the heavier ships dared run the gauntlet. Delancey wondered whether the rebels would let the sloop pass, reserving their fire for the ships of the line. It seemed at first that this was their plan for the Falcon passed slowly before silent batteries.

  “Incredible!” exclaimed the captain as he used his telescope. “There is activity round the rebel cannon but not a shot fired! What sort of game are they playing?”

  Nor did the ships of the line face a more hostile reception. They passed the batteries in their turn, only the third of them being engaged by a single gun which was only belatedly joined by a second. The whole squadron moved to an anchorage in the upper harbour, sealing the fate of Charleston, the surrender of which was now inevitable. The Falcon, heading the line at first, dropped modestly astern after the fort was passed, anchoring further downstream as befitted a mere sloop. Perhaps for this reason it was to her that a boat from the shore directed its course after dark. Delancey, standing watch with Mr Maxwell, at once recognised his old acquaintances, Philip, Isaac and Saul, but they were accompanied this time by a fourth character who gave his name as Major Samuel P. Travell, officer in the rebel artillery, and a recruit, it seemed, to the service of King George III. Given leave to come on board, he reported himself to the officer of the watch, adding: